


East 54th Street and Park

by amphiprioninae



Category: The Catcher in the Rye - J. D. Salinger
Genre: Background Relationships, Closeted Character, Holden being a pain, M/M, Original Character(s), Underage Drinking, canon events, practically canon, the OC is really just referenced sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amphiprioninae/pseuds/amphiprioninae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl Luce receives a call from Holden Caulfield who he used to advise when he was a senior at Whooton High School. Holden wants to talk but that talk quickly goes awry when Holden asks too many questions about Carl's secretive lifestyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	East 54th Street and Park

**Author's Note:**

> This was a piece I had to do for English class and then there happened to be a Catcher in the Rye fandom? Heck yeah, points for fanfic.

 

               Outside the bar was frigid; the puddles of melted snow was starting to refreeze by the curbs on the sidewalks and the chill could be felt all the way from where my feet connected with the concrete to the top of my head, reaching in to my bones to make a dull ache. Dread filled the remaining pieces of my freezing body as I realized I’d have to walk from 54th street to home on 69th. I hugged my jacket closer to myself, as if that would actually keep out the cold. The cold wasn’t helping disintegrate my annoyance at Caulfield. How dare he? First he come crawling to me, calls me up this evening, right before I have plans and I had to rearrange my whole day around him, and then he decides to be typical Caulfield and act like an immature first grader. When will he ever grow up? Is he perpetually stuck in the age of 5? Probably. I huffed in my annoyance, I could still feel my anger rolling down my shoulders and back onto the concrete in a black swirl of emotion. I shouldn’t have let him get to me I know that. But thinking back on it, I should have been able to predict everything.

 

“I can only stay for a few minutes. I’ve got a date,” as I sat, before ordering a dry martini, no olive. The night was chilly and I was still wrapped in my trench coat from the outdoors, the cold following behind me like with the silent footsteps of a shadow, eliciting a graceless shiver. He looked back at me before responding, wry smile on his face.

               “Hey, I got a flit for you,” he gestured with his hands towards a good looking young man with the flop of dark wavy hair hanging over his sharp brows, furthest from the door. “At the end of the bar. Don’t look now. I’ve been saving him for ya.”

               I grimaced internally, Caulfield was the same as ever. “Very funny, same old Caulfield, when are you going to grow up?”

               He didn’t miss a beat. “How’s your sex life?”

               This time I couldn’t keep the scowl off my face as I said exasperatedly, “Relax, just sit back and relax for Chrissake.”

               “I’m relaxed. How’s Columbia? Ya like it?”

               “Certainly I like it. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be have gone there.” It was a surefire way to bore him.

               “What’re you majoring in?” He paused, lips curled up devilishly “Perverts?”

               I slammed my martini on the counter “What’re you trying to be—funny?”

               “No. I’m only kidding,” He said insincerely.

               “Listen, hey, Luce. You’re one of those intellectual guys. I need your advice. I’m in a terrific—“

               “ _Listen_ , Caulfield” I cut him off “If you want to sit here and have a quiet, peaceful drink and a _quiet_ peaceful conver—“

               “All right, all right,” he said, “relax.” He was silent for a moment as he realized he had crossed a line. But Caulfield was Caulfield and he couldn’t just let something go. “No kidding, how’s your sex life? You still going around with that same babe you used to at Whooton? The one with the terrific—“

               “Good God, no,” I replied, desperately wishing to forget every moment with that filthy slut I had hid behind my senior year of high school.

               “How come? What happened to her?”

               “I haven’t the _faintest_ idea. For all I know, since you ask, she’s probably the whore of New Hampshire by this time.”

               “That isn’t nice. If she was decent enough to let you get all sexy with her all the time, you at least shouldn’t talk about her that way.”

               “Oh God.” I could see where this conversation was going: Caulfield would analyze my sex life and then proceed to critique it. He seemed to get a kick out of that. “Is this going to be a typical Caulfield conversation? I want to know right now.”

               “No,” he said “but it isn’t nice anyway. If she was decent enough to let you—“

               “ _Must_ we proceed this trend of thought?” I was getting tired of my sex-life being berated by a horny teenager who had no idea what he was talking about. Instead of firing off another witty comeback angled at my exposed nerves, he leaned over the counter and ordered another drink. He was already on his way to being thoroughly drunk.

 

               I should have realized right then and there that Caulfield was just trying to talk to someone, like back at Whooton when I was the student advisor. I stopped in my tracks on the sidewalk. How could I have not noticed that earlier?

 

               “Who’re you going around with now?” He asked after a deep sip of scotch and soda. “You feel like telling me?”

               I tried to suppress the fear curling around my back but to no avail as I stiffened in my chair. “Nobody you know”

               “Yeah, but who? I might know her.”

               I should’ve known that wouldn’t satiate the endless prying curiosity that was Holden Caulfield. I tried to keep my answer cool and even, so he couldn’t detect the lie that was in it. If there was anything I knew how to do, it was lie. You always lie with the truth. “Girl lives in the Village. Sculptress. If you must know her” It wasn’t too far from the truth.

               I sighed on the cold sidewalk. Desperate for help or no, Caulfield knew how to live life on the line. He was born with the gift of seeing someone and instantly knowing their weaknesses, even if their weakness meant the safety of not only themselves but those they loved. But his flaw was that he didn’t care and would just push to see what might happen.

               “Yeah? No kidding? How old is she?”

               It caught me off guard; I’d never actually asked him. “I’ve never _asked_ her for God’s sake.”

               “Well around how old?”

               “I should imagine she’s in her late thirties.” It wasn’t a lie, Ren seemed to be around that.

               “In her late _thirties?_ ” Caulfield asked incredulous. “Yeah? You like that? You like ‘em old?” His incredulity had faded into a genuine question. It didn’t take me long to catch up to his train of thought; he was using this conversation for his own personal encyclopedia, too afraid to actually go out and find the answers through experience.

               “I like a mature person, if that’s what you mean. Certainly.” I was not in the mood to be anyone’s encyclopedia.

               “You do? Why? No kidding, they better for sex and all?”

               “Listen. Let’s get one thing straight. I refuse to answer any typical Caulfield questions tonight. When in _hell_ are you going to grow up?” He sat back down in his seat and stared blankly at the liquor rack, lost in his thoughts as I ordered another drink, asking the bartender to make drier this time. I didn’t have to meet Ren until 11:30. He wouldn’t mind that much. And alcohol might make this conversation end sooner.

               “Listen. How long you been going around with her, this sculpture babe?” He seemed genuinely interested in him. “Did you know her when you were at Whooton?”

               “Hardly. She just arrived in this country a few months ago,” Maybe that would stop Caulfield from trying to guess his identity. It was a lie, Ren had lived in New York his whole life, but if I could just derail Caulfield we could turn the conversation into safer waters.

               “She did? Where from?”

               “She happens to be from Shanghai”

               “No kidding! She _Chinese,_ for Chrissake?” He was impressed.

               “Obviously.”

               “No kidding! Do you like that? Her being Chinese?”

               “Obviously.” Now Caulfield was really grasping at conversation starters.

               “Why? I’d be interested to know—I really would.”

               “I simply happen to find Eastern philosophy more satisfactory than Western. Since you _ask._ ” Maybe I could derail this destructively personal conversation to something safer.

               “You do? Wuddya mean ‘philosophy’? Ya mean sex and all? You mean it’s better in China? That what you mean?”

               But this was Caulfield, and a drunk Caulfield at that. His only thoughts revolved around sex “Not necessarily in _China_ , for God’s sake. The _East_ I said. Must we go on with this inane conversation?” I needed this headache to end.

               “Listen, I’m serious.” He paused penchant to show his sincerity. “No kidding, why’s it better in the East?”

               “It’s too involved to go into for God’s sake,” I said, “they simply happen to regard sex as both physical and spiritual experience. If you think I’m—“

               “So do I! So do I regard it as a wuddyacallit—a physical and spiritual experience and all. I really do. But it depends on who the hell I’m doing it with. If I’m doing it with somebody I don’t ever—“

               “Not so _loud_ , for God’s sake, Caulfield. If you can’t manage to keep your voice down, lets drop the whole—“

               “All right, but listen,” he said, “this is what I mean though. I know it’s supposed to be physical and spiritual, and artistic and all. But what I mean is, you can’t do it with _everybody_ —every girl you neck with and all—and make it come out that way. Can you?”

               “Let’s drop it.” This conversation had derailed from personal to simply uncomfortable. “Do you mind?”

               “All right, but listen. Take you and this Chinese babe. What’s so good about you two?”

               “ _Drop_ it.”

 

               On the sidewalk I was still frozen in place, hugging myself against the sharp wind that whistled its way through the slick skyscrapers on 54th Street. Late night denizens made their way around me like a river does around a boulder. The frigid winter chill was doing nothing to calm my anger at him. I could still feel the black tendrils curling down my back and forming an invisible puddle on the icy pavement. Caulfield didn’t just hit those buttons perfectly; he had a field day and hit the brilliant red self-destruct one as well. The one that lay on the dashboard that screamed “Do Not Press” in thick black lettering. He may be only 16, but he was old enough to not behave like such a child. Doesn’t he understand the gravity of what poking at that monster would do to me? To Ren? I know the kid has his doubts about me, that’s been evident ever since he called me a “fat-assed phony” right before he left the school. Why does he feel it absolutely necessary to call everyone out on the monsters hanging in their closets? I know he finds me fake. I _am_ fake. But why does he have to accentuate that feeling of falsity? Why does he have to pin me to the wall, knife to my throat, snickering? The kid may want help, but he doesn’t deserve it. I shouldn’t give it to him, I have no obligation. Rolling my shoulders back and setting them in place I turned back towards 69 th street to head home. Ren must be waiting by now.

              

“Maybe I’ll go to China. My sex life is lousy”

               I snorted internally, “Naturally. Your mind is immature.”

               “It is. It really is. I know it,” he said “You know what the trouble with me is? I can never get really sexy—I mean _really_ sexy—with a girl I don’t like a lot. I mean I have to _like_ her a lot. If I don’t, then I sort of lose my goddam desire for her and all. Boy, it really screws up my sex life something awful. My sex life stinks.”

               Finally Caulfield was actually telling the truth, the virgin that he was. “Naturally it does, for God’s sake. I told the last time I saw you what you need.”

               “You mean to go to a psychoanalyst and all?”

               “It’s up to you, for God’s sake. It’s none of my goddam business what you do with your life.”

               “Supposing I went to your father and had him psychoanalyze me and all,” he said. “What would he do to me? I mean what would he do to me?”

               “He wouldn’t do a goddam thing to you. He’d simply talk to you, and you’d talk to him, for God’s sake. For one thing, he’d help you recognize the patterns of your mind.”

               “The what?”

               “The patterns of your mind. Your mind runs in—Listen. I’m not giving an elementary course in psychoanalysis. If you’re interested, call him up and make an appointment. If you’re not, don’t. I couldn’t care less, frankly.”

               He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You’re a real friendly bastard. You know that?”

               I glanced at my watch. It was nearly past 11, “I have to tear.” As I stood up I realized something, “Nice seeing you.”

               “Hey,” he paused before I left “did your father ever psychoanalyze you?”

               “Me? Why do you ask?”

               “No reason. Did he, though? Has he?”

               “Not exactly. He’s helped me _adjust_ myself to a certain extent, but an extensive analysis hasn’t been necessary. Why do you ask?”

               “No reason. I was just wondering”

               “Well. Take it easy,” I said as I placed my tip on the counter, shrugging my coat back on.

               “Have one more drink. Please. I’m lonesome as hell. No kidding.” As he said that I looked into him and saw just how much truth he was telling, the drink loosening up the hurt behind them. But I couldn’t stay, as much as I pitied him. I had somewhere to go, someone to see.

               “I’m late.” I said curtly, before flying out the door.

 

               Nearing 60th street I found myself faltering and veering towards the park, as much as I tried to shake off the thoughts of Caulfield I couldn’t. Maybe he really does need to see a psychoanalyst. Maybe he'd actually listen to a professional opinion about his situation. After all it did me worlds of good, even if my Father had forced me to date that dumb blonde, it made me realize that I had a choice: live life the way you're supposed to, or go underground. It is a hard life no doubt, but its better this way than the alternative. It’s better living the lie. Sure, eventually I’ll have to marry some woman. Some dumb slut, who’ll whore around the streets of Jersey at night. It’s not ideal, but do I have another option? I love Ren but it can’t last. We just don’t have a place together in the world.

I stopped on the sidewalk again, my eyes having never left my feet since the bar and found myself at the entrance to Central Park, utterly deserted except for the yellow eyes of sewer rats and other creatures of the night. This was my home, and I wasn’t made for this world. Ren wasn’t made for this world. His soft clear face dominated my mind, the feel of his straight shining black hair memorized on my palm. How could I leave that for some woman? How am I ever going to leave him? Caulfield is right, I know he is right, I’m nothing but a phony. I put my head in my hands as I sat on a bench, letting the black of the night surround me and drown me.

 


End file.
